American soldiers have long scrawled messages to the enemy on the bombs they were about to deliver. In the The Making of the Atomic Bomb, Richard Rhodes reminds us, for instance, that "Little Boy," the bomb that would inaugurate a new age over Hiroshima, "was inscribed with autographs and messages, some of them obscene. 'Greetings to the Emperor from the men of the Indianapolis,' one challenged." (The Indianapolis, a heavy cruiser which had transported parts of Little Boy to the island of Tinian for assembly, had been torpedoed by a Japanese submarine only a week earlier and most of its crew had died at sea under gruesome circumstances.)

Recently, my eye was caught by a report on just such "autographs and messages" from our most recent war. A Washington Post piece discussing the air war over Baghdad and the Hellfire missiles the U.S. military has been regularly firing into the vast Shiite slum, Sadr City, these last months included this passage:

"At a sprawling air base on the outskirts of Baghdad, Edens, Katzenberger and their colleagues live in small trailers surrounded by blast walls, play volleyball on sand courts and eat at an outdoor food court. Many of the pilots are in their 20s. The pilots sometimes scrawl messages on the five-foot-long missiles strapped to their 'birds.' During a recent visit to the base, a reporter saw a missile addressed to 'Haji,' an honorific for people who have made the pilgrimage to Mecca. Many U.S. soldiers use it to refer dismissively to Iraqis and Arabs in general. Someone wrote 'rock this thang' on another."

"To refer dismissively…": This is the Post's polite way of describing the bedrock racism — the demeaning of the enemy (and hardening of the self) — that is essentially bound to go with any counterinsurgency-cum-neocolonial war like those in Iraq and Afghanistan. Few know this better than Pulitzer Prize-winning former war reporter Chris Hedges who, along with Laila al-Arian, has produced a remarkable new book, Collateral Damage, America's War Against Iraqi Civilians (officially published on this very day). Based on hundreds of hours of interviews with veterans of the Iraq war and occupation, it lays out graphically indeed and in their own words the American system of patrols, convoys, home raids, detentions, and military checkpoints that became a living nightmare for civilians in Iraq. Think of their book as a two-person version of the Vietnam-era Winter Soldier Investigation, this time for a war in which Americans have seemed especially uneager to know much about what their troops, many thousands of miles from home, are really doing to the "hajis."

The following piece — with echoes of Hedges's classic work War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning — has been adapted from his introduction to the new book. Tom

Collateral Damage - What It Really Means When America Goes to War

by Chris Hedges

Troops, when they battle insurgent forces, as in Iraq,
or Gaza or Vietnam, are placed in "atrocity producing situations."
Being surrounded by a hostile population makes simple acts, such as
going to a store to buy a can of Coke, dangerous. The fear and stress
push troops to view everyone around them as the enemy. The hostility is
compounded when the enemy, as in Iraq, is elusive, shadowy and hard to
find. The rage soldiers feel after a roadside bomb explodes, killing or
maiming their comrades, is one that is easily directed, over time, to
innocent civilians who are seen to support the insurgents.

Civilians and combatants, in the eyes of the beleaguered troops, merge
into one entity. These civilians, who rarely interact with soldiers or
Marines, are to most of the occupation troops in Iraq nameless,
faceless, and easily turned into abstractions of hate. They are
dismissed as less than human. It is a short psychological leap, but a
massive moral leap. It is a leap from killing — the shooting of someone
who has the capacity to do you harm — to murder — the deadly assault
against someone who cannot harm you.

The war in Iraq is now primarily about murder. There is very little
killing. The savagery and brutality of the occupation is tearing apart
those who have been deployed to Iraq. As news reports have just
informed us, 115 American soldiers committed suicide in 2007. This is a
13% increase in suicides over 2006. And the suicides, as they did in
the Vietnam War years, will only rise as distraught veterans come home,
unwrap the self-protective layers of cotton wool that keep them from
feeling, and face the awful reality of what they did to innocents in
Iraq

American
Marines and soldiers have become socialized to atrocity. The killing
project is not described in these terms to a distant public. The
politicians still speak in the abstract terms of glory, honor, and
heroism, in the necessity of improving the world, in lofty phrases of
political and spiritual renewal. Those who kill large numbers of people
always claim it as a virtue. The campaign to rid the world of terror is
expressed within the confines of this rhetoric, as if once all
terrorists are destroyed evil itself will vanish.

The reality
behind the myth, however, is very different. The reality and the ideal
tragically clash when soldiers and Marines return home. These combat
veterans are often alienated from the world around them, a world that
still believes in the myth of war and the virtues of the nation. They
confront the grave, existential crisis of all who go through combat and
understand that we have no monopoly on virtue, that in war we become as
barbaric and savage as those we oppose.

This is a profound crisis of faith. It shatters the myths, national and
religious, that these young men and women were fed before they left for
Iraq. In short, they uncover the lie they have been told. Their
relationship with the nation will never be the same. These veterans
give us a true narrative of the war — one that exposes the vast
enterprise of industrial slaughter unleashed in Iraq. They expose the
lie.

War as Betrayal

"This unit sets up this traffic control point, and this 18 year-old kid
is on top of an armored Humvee with a .50-caliber machine gun,"
remembered Sgt. Geoffrey Millard, who served in Tikrit with the 42nd
Infantry Division. "And this car speeds at him pretty quick and he
makes a split-second decision that that's a suicide bomber, and he
presses the butterfly trigger and puts two hundred rounds in less than
a minute into this vehicle. It killed the mother, a father, and two
kids. The boy was aged four and the daughter was aged three.

"And they briefed this to the general," Millard said, "and they briefed
it gruesome. I mean, they had pictures. They briefed it to him. And
this colonel turns around to this full division staff and says, 'If
these f — -ing hajis learned to drive, this sh-t wouldn't happen.'"

Millard and tens of thousands of other veterans suffer not only delayed
reactions to stress but this crisis of faith. The God they knew, or
thought they knew, failed them. The church or the synagogue or the
mosque, which promised redemption by serving God and country, did not
prepare them for the awful betrayal of this civic religion, for the
capacity we all have for human atrocity, for the stories of heroism
used to mask the reality of war.

War is always about betrayal: betrayal of the young by the old, of
idealists by cynics, and of troops by politicians. This bitter
knowledge of betrayal has seeped into the ranks of America's Iraq War
veterans. It has unleashed a new wave of disillusioned veterans not
seen since the Vietnam War. It has made it possible for us to begin,
again, to see war's death mask and understand our complicity in evil.

"And then, you know, my sort of sentiment of, 'What the f — - are we
doing, that I felt that way in Iraq,'" said Sgt. Ben Flanders, who
estimated that he ran hundreds of military convoys in Iraq. "It's the
sort of insanity of it and the fact that it reduces it. Well, I think
war does anyway, but I felt like there was this enormous reduction in
my compassion for people. The only thing that wound up mattering is
myself and the guys that I was with. And everybody else be damned,
whether you are an Iraqi — I'm sorry, I'm sorry you live here, I'm
sorry this is a terrible situation, and I'm sorry that you have to deal
with all of, you know, army vehicles running around and shooting, and
these insurgents and all this stuff."

The Hobbesian world of Iraq described by Flanders is one where the
ethic is kill or be killed. All nuance and distinction vanished for
him. He fell, like most of the occupation troops, into a binary world
of us and them, the good and the bad, those worthy of life and those
unworthy of life. The vast majority of Iraqi civilians, caught in the
middle of the clash among militias, death squads, criminal gangs,
foreign fighters, kidnapping rings, terrorists, and heavily armed
occupation troops, were just one more impediment that, if they happened
to get in the way, had to be eradicated. These Iraqis were no longer
human. They were abstractions in human form.

"The first briefing you get when you get off the plane in Kuwait, and
you get off the plane and you're holding a duffel bag in each hand,"
Millard remembered. "You've got your weapon slung. You've got a web
sack on your back. You're dying of heat. You're tired. You're
jet-lagged. Your mind is just full of goop. And then you're scared on
top of that, because, you know, you're in Kuwait, you're not in the
States anymore... So fear sets in, too. And they sit you into this
little briefing room and you get this briefing about how, you know, you
can't trust any of these f — -ing hajis, because all these f — -king
hajis are going to kill you. And 'haji' is always used as a term of
disrespect and usually with the F-word in front of it."

The press coverage of the war in Iraq rarely exposes the twisted
pathology of this war. We see the war from the perspective of the
troops or from the equally skewed perspective of the foreign reporters,
holed up in hotels, hemmed in by drivers and translators and official
security and military escorts. There are moments when war's face
appears to these voyeurs and professional killers, perhaps from the
back seat of a car where a small child, her brains oozing out of her
head, lies dying, but mostly it remains hidden. And all our knowledge
of the war in Iraq has to be viewed as lacking the sweep and depth that
will come one day, perhaps years from now, when a small Iraqi boy
reaches adulthood and unfolds for us the sad and tragic story of the
invasion and bloody occupation of his nation.

As the war sours, as it no longer fits into the mythical narrative of
us as liberators and victors, it fades from view. The cable news shows
that packaged and sold us the war have stopped covering it, trading the
awful carnage of bomb blasts in Baghdad for the soap-opera sagas of
Roger Clemens, Miley Cyrus, and Britney Spears in her eternal meltdown.
Average monthly coverage of the war in Iraq on the ABC, NBC, and CBS
newscasts combined has been cut in half, falling from 388 minutes in
2003, to 274 in 2004, to 166 in 2005. And newspapers, including papers
like the Boston Globe,
have shut down their Baghdad bureaus. Deprived of a clear, heroic
narrative, restricted and hemmed in by security concerns, they have
walked away.

Most reporters know that the invasion and the
occupation have been a catastrophe. They know the Iraqis do not want
us. They know about the cooked intelligence, spoon-fed to a compliant
press by the Office of Special Plans and Lewis Libby's White House Iraq
Group. They know about Curveball, the forged documents out of Niger,
the outed CIA operatives, and the bogus British intelligence dossiers
that were taken from old magazine articles. They know the weapons of
mass destruction were destroyed long before we arrived. They know that
our military as well as our National Guard and reserve units are being
degraded and decimated. They know this war is not about bringing
democracy to Iraq, that all the clichés about staying the course and
completing the mission are used to make sure the president and his
allies do not pay a political price while in power for their blunders
and their folly.

The press knows all this, and if reporters had bothered to look they
could have known it a long time ago. But the press, or at least most of
it, has lost the passion, the outrage, and the sense of mission that
once drove reporters to defy authority and tell the truth.

The Legions of the Lost and Damned

War is the pornography of violence. It has a dark beauty, filled with
the monstrous and the grotesque. The Bible calls it "the lust of the
eye" and warns believers against it. War allows us to engage in lusts
and passions we keep hidden in the deepest, most private interiors of
our fantasy lives. It allows us to destroy not only things and ideas
but human beings.

In that moment of wholesale destruction, we wield the power of the
divine, the power to revoke another person's charter to live on this
Earth. The frenzy of this destruction — and when unit discipline breaks
down, or when there was no unit discipline to begin with, "frenzy" is
the right word — sees armed bands crazed by the poisonous elixir that
our power to bring about the obliteration of others delivers. All
things, including human beings, become objects — objects either to
gratify or destroy, or both. Almost no one is immune. The contagion of
the crowd sees to that.

Human beings are machine-gunned and bombed from the air, automatic
grenade launchers pepper hovels and neighbors with high-powered
explosive devices, and convoys race through Iraq like freight trains of
death. These soldiers and Marines have at their fingertips the heady
ability to call in airstrikes and firepower that obliterate landscapes
and villages in fiery infernos. They can instantly give or deprive
human life, and with this power they become sick and demented. The
moral universe is turned upside down. All human beings are used as
objects. And no one walks away uninfected.

War thrusts us into a vortex of pain and fleeting ecstasy. It thrusts
us into a world where law is of little consequence, human life is
cheap, and the gratification of the moment becomes the overriding
desire that must be satiated, even at the cost of another's dignity or
life.

"A lot of guys really supported that whole concept that, you know, if
they don't speak English and they have darker skin, they're not as
human as us, so we can do what we want," said Spc. Josh Middleton, who
served in the 82nd Airborne in Iraq. "And you know, 20 year-old kids
are yelled at back and forth at Bragg, and we're picking up cigarette
butts and getting yelled at every day for having a dirty weapon. But
over here, it's like life and death. And 40 year-old Iraqi men look at
us with fear and we can — do you know what I mean? — we have this power
that you can't have. That's really liberating. Life is just knocked
down to this primal level of, you know, you worry about where the next
food's going to come from, the next sleep or the next patrol, and to
stay alive.

"It's like, you feel like, I don't know, if you're a caveman," he
added. "Do you know what I mean? Just, you know, I mean, this is how
life is supposed to be. Life and death, essentially. No TV. None of
that bullsh-t."

It takes little in wartime to turn ordinary men into killers. Most give
themselves willingly to the seduction of unlimited power to destroy.
All feel the peer pressure to conform. Few, once in battle, find the
strength to resist. Physical courage is common on a battlefield. Moral
courage, which these veterans have exhibited by telling us the truth
about the war, is not.

Military machines and state bureaucracies, which seek to make us obey,
seek also to silence those who return from war and speak to its
reality. They push aside these witnesses to hide from a public eager
for stories of war that fit the mythic narrative of glory and heroism
the essence of war, which is death. War, as these veterans explain,
exposes the capacity for evil that lurks just below the surface within
all of us. This is the truth these veterans, often with great pain,
have had to face.

The historian Christopher Browning chronicled the willingness to kill in Ordinary Men,
his study of Reserve Police Battalion 101 in Poland during World War
II. On the morning of July 12, 1942, the battalion, made up of
middle-aged recruits, was ordered to shoot 1,800 Jews in the village of
Józefów in a daylong action. The men in the unit had to round up the
Jews, march them into the forest, and one by one order them to lie down
in a row. The victims, including women, infants, children, and the
elderly, were shot dead at close range.

Battalion members
were offered the option to refuse, an option only about a dozen men
took, although a few more asked to be relieved once the killing began.
Those who did not want to continue, Browning says, were disgusted
rather than plagued by conscience. When the men returned to the
barracks they "were depressed, angered, embittered and shaken." They
drank heavily. They were told not to talk about the event, "but they
needed no encouragement in that direction."

Each generation responds to war as innocents. Each generation discovers
its own disillusionment, often at a terrible personal price. And the
war in Iraq has begun to produce legions of the lost and the damned,
many of whom battle the emotional and physical trauma that comes from
killing and exposure to violence.

Punishing the Local Population

Sgt. Camilo Mejía, who eventually applied while still on active duty to
become a conscientious objector, said the ugly side of American racism
and chauvinism appeared the moment his unit arrived in the Middle East.
Fellow soldiers instantly ridiculed Arab-style toilets because they
would be "sh-tting like dogs." The troops around him treated Iraqis,
whose language they did not speak and whose culture was alien, little
better than animals.

The word "haji" swiftly became a slur to refer to Iraqis, in much the
same way "gook" was used to debase the Vietnamese and "raghead" is used
to belittle those in Afghanistan. Soon those around him ridiculed "haji
food," "haji homes," and "haji music." Bewildered prisoners, who were
rounded up in useless and indiscriminate raids, were stripped naked and
left to stand terrified for hours in the baking sun. They were
subjected to a steady torrent of verbal and physical abuse. "I
experienced horrible confusion," Mejía remembered, "not knowing whether
I was more afraid for the detainees or for what would happen to me if I
did anything to help them."

These scenes of abuse, which began immediately after the American
invasion, were little more than collective acts of sadism. Mejía
watched, not daring to intervene yet increasingly disgusted at the
treatment of Iraqi civilians. He saw how the callous and unchecked
abuse of power first led to alienation among Iraqis and spawned a raw
hatred of the occupation forces. When Army units raided homes, the
soldiers burst in on frightened families, forced them to huddle in the
corners at gunpoint, and helped themselves to food and items in the
house.

"After we arrested drivers," he recalled, "we would choose whichever
vehicles we liked, fuel them from confiscated jerry cans, and conduct
undercover presence patrols in the impounded cars.

"But to this day I cannot find a single good answer as to why I stood
by idly during the abuse of those prisoners except, of course, my own
cowardice," he also noted.

Iraqi families were routinely fired upon for getting too close to
checkpoints, including an incident where an unarmed father driving a
car was decapitated by a .50-caliber machine gun in front of his small
son. Soldiers shot holes into cans of gasoline being sold alongside the
road and then tossed incendiary grenades into the pools to set them
ablaze. "It's fun to shoot sh-t up," a soldier said. Some opened fire
on small children throwing rocks. And when improvised explosive devices
(IEDS) went off, the troops fired wildly into densely populated
neighborhoods, leaving behind innocent victims who became, in the
callous language of war, "collateral damage."

"We would drive on the wrong side of the highway to reduce the risk of
being hit by an IED," Mejía said of the deadly roadside bombs. "This
forced oncoming vehicles to move to one side of the road and
considerably slowed down the flow of traffic. In order to avoid being
held up in traffic jams, where someone could roll a grenade under our
trucks, we would simply drive up on sidewalks, running over garbage
cans and even hitting civilian vehicles to push them out of the way.
Many of the soldiers would laugh and shriek at these tactics."

At one point the unit was surrounded by an angry crowd protesting the
occupation. Mejía and his squad opened fire on an Iraqi holding a
grenade, riddling the man's body with bullets. Mejía checked his clip
afterward and determined that he had fired 11 rounds into the young
man. Units, he said, nonchalantly opened fire in crowded neighborhoods
with heavy M-240 Bravo machine guns, AT-4 launchers, and Mark 19s, a
machine gun that spits out grenades.

"The frustration that resulted from our inability to get back at those
who were attacking us," Mejía said, "led to tactics that seemed
designed simply to punish the local population that was supporting
them."

The Algebra of Occupation

It is the anonymity of the enemy that fuels the mounting rage. Comrades
are maimed or die, and there is no one to lash back at, unless it is
the hapless civilians who happen to live in the neighborhood where the
explosion or ambush occurred. Soldiers and Marines can do two or three
tours in Iraq and never actually see the enemy, although their units
come under attack and take numerous casualties. These troops, who
entered Baghdad in triumph when Iraq was occupied, soon saw the
decisive victory over Saddam Hussein's army evolve into a messy war of
attrition.

The superior firepower and lightning victory was canceled out by what
T. E. Lawrence once called the "algebra of occupation." Writing about
the British occupation of Iraq following the Ottoman Empire's collapse
in World War I, Lawrence, in lessons these veterans have had to learn
on their own, highlighted what has always doomed conventional, foreign
occupying powers.

"Rebellion must have an unassailable base… it must have a sophisticated
alien enemy, in the form of a disciplined army of occupation too small
to dominate the whole area effectively from fortified posts," Lawrence
wrote. "It must have a friendly population, not actively friendly, but
sympathetic to the point of not betraying rebel movements to the enemy.
Rebellions can be made by 2 percent active in a striking force, and 98
percent passive sympathy. Granted mobility, security… time and
doctrine… victory will rest with the insurgents, for the algebraical
factors are in the end decisive."

The failure in Iraq is the same failure that bedeviled the French in
Algeria; the United States in Vietnam; and the British, who for 800
years beat, imprisoned, transported, shot, and hanged hundreds of
thousands of Irish patriots. Occupation, in each case, turned the
occupiers into beasts and fed the insurrection. It created patterns
where innocents, as in Iraq, were terrorized and killed. The campaign
against a mostly invisible enemy, many veterans said, has given rise to
a culture of terror and hatred among U.S. forces, many of whom, losing
ground, have in effect declared war on all Iraqis.

Mejía said, regarding the deaths of Iraqis at checkpoints, "This sort
of killing of civilians has long ceased to arouse much interest or even
comment."

Mejía also watched soldiers from his unit abuse the corpses of Iraqi
dead. He related how, in one incident, soldiers laughed as an Iraqi
corpse fell from the back of a truck. "Take a picture of me and this
motherf — -er," said one of the soldiers who had been in Mejía's squad
in Third Platoon, putting his arm around the corpse.

The shroud fell away from the body, revealing a young man wearing only his pants. There was a bullet hole in his chest.

"Damn, they really f — -ed you up, didn't they?" the soldier laughed.

The scene, Mejía noted, was witnessed by the dead man's brothers and cousins.

The senior officers, protected in heavily fortified compounds, rarely
experienced combat. They sent their troops on futile missions in the
quest to be awarded Combat Infantry Badges. This recognition, Mejía
noted, "was essential to their further progress up the officer ranks."

This pattern meant that "very few high-ranking officers actually got
out into the action, and lower-ranking officers were afraid to
contradict them when they were wrong." When the badges — bearing an
emblem of a musket with the hammer dropped, resting on top of an oak
wreath — were finally awarded, the commanders brought in Iraqi tailors
to sew the badges on the left breast pockets of their desert combat
uniforms.

"This was one occasion when our leaders led from the front," Mejía
noted bitterly. "They were among the first to visit the tailors to get
their little patches of glory sewn next to their hearts."

War breeds gratuitous, senseless, and repeated acts of atrocity and
violence. Abuse of the powerless becomes a kind of perverted sport for
the troops.

"I mean, if someone has a fan, they're a white-collar family," said
Spc. Philip Chrystal, who carried out raids on Iraqi homes in Kirkuk.
"So we get started on this day, this one, in particular. And it starts
with the psy-ops [psychological operations] vehicles out there, you
know, with the big speakers playing a message in Arabic or Farsi or
Kurdish or whatever they happen to be saying, basically, saying put
your weapons, if you have them, next to the front door in your house.
Please come outside, blah, blah, blah, blah. And we had Apaches flying
over for security, if they're needed, and it's also a good show of
force. And we were running around, and we'd done a few houses by this
point, and I was with my platoon leader, my squad leader, and maybe a
couple other people, but I don't really remember.

"And we were approaching this one house, and this farming area;
they're, like, built up into little courtyards," he said. "So they have
like the main house, common area. They have like a kitchen and then
they have like a storage-shed-type deal. And we were approaching, and
they had a family dog. And it was barking ferociously, because it was
doing its job. And my squad leader, just out of nowhere, just shoots
it. And he didn't — motherf — -er — he shot it, and it went in the jaw
and exited out.

"So I see this dog — and I'm a huge animal lover. I love animals — and
this dog has like these eyes on it, and he's running around spraying
blood all over the place. And the family is sitting right there, with
three little children and a mom and a dad horrified. And I'm at a loss
for words. And so I yell at him. I'm like, ‘What the f — - are you
doing?' And so the dog's yelping. It's crying out without a jaw. And
I'm looking at the family, and they're just scared. And so I told them,
I was like, 'F — -ing shoot it,' you know. 'At least kill it, because
that can't be fixed. It's suffering.' And I actually get tears from
just saying this right now, but — and I had tears then, too — and I'm
looking at the kids and they are so scared. So I got the interpreter
over with me and I get my wallet out and I gave them twenty bucks,
because that's what I had. And, you know, I had him give it to them and
told them that I'm so sorry that asshole did that. Which was very
common.

The vanquished know war. They see through the empty jingoism of those
who use the abstract words of "glory," "honor," and "patriotism" to
mask the cries of the wounded, the brutal killing, war profiteering,
and chest-pounding grief. They know the lies the victors often do not
acknowledge, the lies covered up in stately war memorials and mythic
war narratives, filled with stories of courage and comradeship. They
know the lies that permeate the thick, self-important memoirs by amoral
statesmen who make wars but do not know war.

The vanquished know the essence of war — death. They grasp that war is
necrophilia. They see that war is a state of almost pure sin, with its
goals of hatred and destruction. They know how war fosters alienation,
leads inevitably to nihilism, and is a turning away from the sanctity
and preservation of life. All other narratives about war too easily
fall prey to the allure and seductiveness of violence as well as the
attraction of the godlike power that comes with the license to kill
with impunity.

But the words of the vanquished come later, sometimes long after the
war, when grown men and women unpack the suffering they endured as
children: what it was like to see their mother or father killed or
taken away, or what it was like to lose their homes, their community,
their security, and to be discarded as human refuse. But by then few
listen. The truth about war comes out, but usually too late. We are
assured by the war-makers that these stories have no bearing on the
glorious violent enterprise the nation is about to inaugurate. And,
lapping up the myth of war and its sense of empowerment, we prefer not
to look.

We are trapped in a doomed war of attrition in Iraq. We have blundered
into a nation we know little about, caught in bitter rivalries between
competing ethnic and religious groups. Iraq was a cesspool for the
British in 1917 when they occupied it. It will be a cesspool for us as
well. We have embarked on an occupation that is as damaging to our
souls as to our prestige and power and security. We have become tyrants
to others weaker than ourselves. And we believe, falsely, that because
we have the capacity to wage war we have the right to wage war.

We make our heroes out of clay. We laud their gallant deeds and give
them uniforms with colored ribbons on their chests for the acts of
violence they committed or endured. They are our false repositories of
glory and honor, of power, of self-righteousness, of patriotism and
self-worship, all that we want to believe about ourselves. They are our
plaster saints of war, the icons we cheer to defend us and make us and
our nation great. They are the props of our civic religion, our love of
power and force, our belief in our right as a chosen nation to wield
this force against the weak, and rule. This is our nation's idolatry of
itself. And this idolatry has corrupted religious institutions, not
only here but in most nations, making it impossible for us to separate
the will of God from the will of the state.

Prophets are not those who speak of piety and duty from pulpits — few
people in pulpits have much worth listening to — but are the battered
wrecks of men and women who return from Iraq and speak the halting
words we do not want to hear, words that we must listen to and heed to
know ourselves. They tell us war is a soulless void. They have seen and
tasted how war plunges us into perversion, trauma, and an unchecked
orgy of death. And it is their testimonies that have the redemptive
power to save us from ourselves.

Chris Hedges is the former Middle East Bureau Chief of the New York Times, a Pulitzer Prize winner, and a Senior Fellow at the Nation Institute. He is the author of several books including War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning. This piece has been adapted from the introduction to the just-published, Collateral Damage: America's War Against Iraqi Civilians (Nation Books), which he has co-authored with Laila al-Arian.